


Club Night

by Jadesfire



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 12:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone needs somewhere to belong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Club Night

  
When Nigel tripped over his scarf for the eighth time, Keith made him take it off and carry it. Pausing under a street lamp, he fished under his mock-velvet frock coat and pulled the fob watch out of his waistcoat pocket.

"We're going to be late."

"How can you tell?" Nigel asked. "That thing doesn't work."

"That's the point." Keith replied, trying to sound mysterious. He replaced it with a sigh and pulled back his sleeve to look at his wristwatch. "We've got five minutes."

As they set off again, Nigel restarted the constant litany of questions that he'd kept up for most of the journey.

"Aren't we meeting in Gleam Street anymore?"

"It's just for this week. We got double booked with the Brotherhood of Ebony Knights or something."

"So what's this place we're meeting in tonight?"

"The Castellan found it. It's just temporary."

"But why-"

"Oh for the love of Gallifrey, would you stop!" Keith was really starting to get annoyed now. "I was just given the co-ordinates, alright? That's all I know."

"I was only asking," Nigel said sulkily.

"Well don't, alright?" Coming to a half outside a large, dark house, Keith nodded to himself. "We're here."

The doorkeeper looked them up and down, a bored expression on his face.

"The suns of Gallifrey rise before the Silver Devastation has shone," he droned.

Keith stood up a little straighter. These things should be done properly. "But the Mark of Rassilon has been erased from the Keeper of Traken."

"Yea, for the Silurians are approaching the gateway to E-Space and shall not be thwarted by the Black Guardian."

There was a brief pause. Then Keith said, "Don't you mean that the Silurians are retreating from the approach of the Cyber-rats?"

"Nope." The doorkeeper shook his head. "Definitely the Black Guardian. With the thwarting and everything."

Keith gave Nigel a helpless look. "Must have the address wrong."

Showing a little more interest, the doorkeeper leaned forwards. "Let's see your passes."

Both Keith and Nigel reached into their pockets, pulling out identical sonic screwdrivers. With a flourish, Keith flicked his on, the tiny blue light glowing weakly in the darkness. It even made a noise, if you held it close enough to your ear.

The doorkeeper shook his head. "Sorry, mate. We use the new extendable model with the rotating light."

Feeling a little put out, Keith made a disparaging noise. "You just know they're going to break within a month of use, don't you?"

"Depends what you use them for. You lot are three doors down, I think. Be seeing you, gents."

By the time they reached the right door, it was raining hard, and Nigel had put his rolled up scarf over his head like a misshapen turban.

"Take that off," Keith told him impatiently as he knocked on the door. "You look ridiculous."

"But my hair's getting wet."

"I don't care." Keith looked round as the door opened.

"The suns of Gallifrey rise before the Silver Devastation has shone."

"But the Mark of Rassilon has been erased from the Keeper of Traken."

"Yea, for the Silurians are retreating from the approach of the Cyber-rats."

"And the Autons are marching to the sound of a Venusian Lullaby."

The door opened a little further, then the doorkeeper said, "Let's see your passes." It took a bit more fumbling this time, but eventually they got them out and switched on. With a nod, they were admitted to the house.

Once they were inside, Keith asked, "Are we the last?" He was trying not to think about the state of his coat. Velvet was so hard to take care of.

"Nah," the doorkeeper told them. "The Castellan's not come down yet. Third door on the right."

It took a few minutes of wrestling with Nigel's scarf to get it unknotted and round his neck again. Once they'd unhooked it from the door handle, the umbrella stand and Keith's watch chain, Keith had lost what little was left of his patience.

"Why did you come as him, anyway? You're only five foot four," he hissed as they headed down the corridor.

"He was the best." Nigel was sounding even more sulky now. Half his hair was still in tight curls – which had taken them hours to do – while the other half hung in limp strands down his face and neck. The worst of it was, Keith realised miserably, that his own Byronic locks probably hadn't fared much better. Sighing, he pushed open the door. There was nothing he could do about it now.

As they waited for the Castellan, Keith surreptitiously checked everyone else's outfits. There was the girl with long blonde hair, smiling at him from under her slightly oversized straw boater. She was sitting next to a man in cricketing whites that were just a touch on the grey side and Keith allowed himself a moment of smugness. It had taken him hours, but he'd made sure his own coat was exactly the right shade of greeny-brown. These little details mattered.

The Castellan's own costume was a proper, professional job with the high collar and headpiece gleaming with gold paint and the robes swishing across the floor as he walked into the room.

"Are we all here?" he asked, looking round the group. "Good. Let's begin."

There were the usual notices, a poem about the fall of Arcadia and an interesting essay on 'Temporal Grace – the use of weaponry in the TARDIS.'

Once the applause had died down again, the Castellan stood, fixing each member of the group in turn with a penetrating glare.

"It has come to my attention, my friends," he said, his voice low and serious, "that this group has been infiltrated."

There was a general murmuring as everyone looked round at each other, obviously as confused as Keith himself. The girl in the Union Jack t-shirt was leaning over and whispering in the ear of the boy wearing the yellow tunic. She stopped as the Castellan began to speak again.

"I have been informed that someone in this group has been watching-" He broke off, taking a deep breath. "The Other Programme."

Keith could hear the capital letters on the words, wholly appropriate to the terrible accusation. The atmosphere in the room was thick enough to cut with a McCrimmon dagger. Even though he knew he'd done nothing wrong, he couldn't help swallowing nervously as the Castellan began to walk around the table.

"It's a serious charge, I know," he said. "But we cannot tolerate this kind of thing among us. It must be dealt with swiftly and not allowed to permeate through the group."

His slow pacing had brought him round to behind Keith, who tried to surreptitiously dry his palms on his trousers.

"We have enough problems establishing Canon as it is," the Castellan was saying, and Keith could feel all eyes coming to rest on him, "without allowing The Other Programme to influence us. And that is why I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

For one stomach-churning moment, Keith though the Castellan was talking to him. Then a hand came down past his shoulder, grabbing Nigel's arm from where it was resting on the table, and lifting it up so that his cuff fell back. There was a collective gasp and Keith half-scrambled out of his chair trying to get away from his former friend.

Nigel was wearing a leather wrist band. As the Castellan shook his arm, a small flap opened, revealing the tiny screen beneath. Breaking free, Nigel pushed his chair over as he jumped to his feet.

"Yes!" he shouted, colour rising in his face. "Yes, I like both of them! Yes, I can embrace their flaws and their confusing story lines and non-existent continuity! I believe that it's all one universe and that everyone should just try to get along with each other! I believe in the broadest possible definition of Canon and in giving new things a chance. And I believe that sometimes, people have sex!"

Stumbling over the chair, he made a run for the door, slamming it behind him. A short length of striped material was caught in it and there was a muffled yelp and a loud bang from the corridor before more running footsteps and the sound of the front door closing.

A horrified silence filled the room.

"Well," said the Castellan in a hushed voice, "that was most unpleasant. And I'm afraid there is more to come."

Still recovering from the shock, Keith realised with a start that everyone was still looking at him.

"What?" he asked nervously. "What did I do?"

"You introduced him to the group," the Castellan said gravely. "And you persist in coming as one whose Canonicity is debated at best."

"That's ridiculous," Keith protested. "It's been well-established through the audio adventures and numerous novelisations-"

"I'm sorry." There was little trace of an apology in the Castellan's voice as he cut Keith short. "I can no longer tolerate these disturbing elements within the group. We must protect ourselves."

"What are you going to do?"

Two minutes later, he was standing on the street, shivering in the rain and wondering what he was supposed to do now. How did you go about finding a new group anyway? He'd been introduced by someone who'd since gone on to join the Council of Gallifrey, a more liberal society that actually met in a pub. Without costumes. Keith shivered as the rain ran down the back of his neck, and he tried to tighten his cravat against it.

He was so lost in thought and misery that he didn't see the group running down the street until they were almost on top of him. One of them, a short, pugnacious-looking man, barged into him, knocking all the air out of him as he fell to the pavement.

"You alright, love?" One of the woman stopped, bending over him. Keith had a brief impression of long dark hair and a slightly goofy grin, before the man called out and she looked away. "Sorry, got to go." She hurried over to join Keith's attacker and a pretty, Asian woman who gave him a distracted smile before turning to the small computer screen she was holding.

Hearing more footsteps, Keith braced himself to get trampled on again. Instead, he looked up to see two men coming along the street at a more measured pace, bickering as they walked. One of them – in a long greatcoat and what looked like most of an RAF uniform – kept making a grab for the suited man's neatly knotted tie, amongst other things. The tie-wearer kept batting the wandering hand away, muttering something in an undertone as they joined the others.

A quiet conversation started, the words too soft for Keith to really make out. After a moment, the man in the greatcoat looked up and round the street, apparently seeing Keith for the first time. His mouth curled in a half smile and he patted the suited man on the shoulder before coming over and offering Keith a hand up.

"Nice coat," he said, as Keith tried to brush himself off. "Is that real velvet?"

"Of course." With a despondent grimace, Keith gave up his cleaning attempts, looking at the stranger properly for the first time and receiving a brilliant smile in return.

"I'm-" the stranger began, only to be interrupted by one of the others.

"Oh, stop!" The suited man was watching them, an exasperated expression on his face.

"I was just saying hello."

"Yeah, right. We've got the location."

The others were already off and running, and the man gave Keith a regretful shrug. "Duty calls." He took a few steps, then turned and looked back. "Do you want to come?"

There was only the slightest hesitation before Keith nodded and started to follow the others down the street. He hadn't a clue where he was going, but, suddenly, it looked like things might work out after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, you should know that it's all [](http://entangled-now.livejournal.com/profile)[**entangled_now**](http://entangled-now.livejournal.com/)'s fault. Mostly. It started with a debate over whether or not she should buy a sonic screwdriver. Then we decided that all fangirls should carry sonic screwdrivers, as a form of identification.
> 
> _"Halt! Who goes there?"  
> bzzzzzzeeeeewhirrrrrr  
> "Pass, friend."_
> 
> And, being me, I'm afraid I got a bit carried away and somewhere along the line, the crack-fic grew a plot. Okay. That bit's probably my fault...


End file.
